It's three days on now and yet I'm still not sure Boro's historic Cup win has totally sunk in.

No wonder, what an incredible thing to happen - the team predestined to fail have actually succeeded. It's unbelievable and not a little awe-inspiring.

Suddenly, the world has been turned upside down.

For the neutral, Sunday's final must have been phenomenal entertainment. For Boro fans the last 70 minutes were like slow torture. It was a stunning quickfire start - elation greeted Job's goal and we were in seventh heaven with Zenden's penalty. Boro threatened to run riot.

Was Eric Paylor's 4-0 pre-match prediction actually possible?

It was Mark Schwarzer's near-post slip-up that signalled a sudden explosion of tension. A mid-half meltdown frayed nerves and reduced finger nails to stumps. By the closing stages of the match, normally sober and upright citizens were shrieking and hollering at the referee or clutching their hands in silent prayer as the minutes began to hang like days.

Please, this time, no pesky Heskey moments. This time can we see it right through to the end?

Later on Sunday night I woke up in my hotel room and found myself counting down the digital timepiece. In my half asleep state, I couldn't quite comprehend that it was all over.

Yet it is all over, Boro have won a cup. What an amazing emotional release when Mike Riley blew the final whistle. Over a hundred years of pent up frustration exploded in the tinder box atmosphere beneath the closed roof.

We have an honour. We have a real trophy.

Tonight, Birmingham fans won't be able to sing that we've won nothing. Tonight is the first night when we can proudly support our Carling Cup winning team.

After all those years and miles on the road from the low points of the mid-80s, we've cracked it. No longer a team of also-rans and under-achievers. We've made it at last, we're just a small town in Europe and what an achievement that is.